Nosferatu

CHAPTER 6

Nosferatu was better prepared this time, having learned his lesson on the last awakening. Instead of leaving the tube and blundering forth, he left the lid to the tube slightly cracked each night and lay still, conserving energy, until he caught the scent of something alive. He slid out of the tube and found several birds resting on the cliff. He refreshed himself as best he could, experiencing again the nausea from imbibing nonhuman blood.

Strengthened, but hardly satisfied, he made his way north along the coast, knowing he could not attempt the interior of Africa in his present condition. He had barely made it back to the Skeleton Coast alive after leaving Nekhbet in her mountain crypt. Between the mountains and the west coast had been mile after mile of desert, then thick jungle, then, as he neared the coast, desolate, rock-strewn desert once more.

He’d set the tube for approximately one thousand years, yet he noted nothing had changed in the immediate area as he went along the coast. It was the perfect place for him to rest undisturbed, but because of its ruggedness, a hard one in which to find people to feed on.

He saw no ships sailing along the coast. Finally, the land began to turn green and he encountered his first village. He took two that night, a couple who had escaped into the jungle to copulate. Refreshed he moved more quickly and soon reached the point where an enormous river cut the coast, pouring a wide swath of brown, muddy water into the ocean. Nosferatu could barely see to the other side in the moonlight and wasn’t certain whether what he saw was the riverbank or the shore of an island in the river’s mouth.

The Congo made the Nile’s flow look like a trickle. Still, Nosferatu felt a pang of longing for the blue water of the river in Egypt. He had a sudden vision of a dark-haired woman holding him, looking down at him, smiling. He was small, tiny, a baby. But he knew she loved him. But that, like so much of his life, was just a memory now.

Even animals had others like them. Nosferatu was perhaps the most isolated being on the planet. Nekhbet was in the deep sleep in the cave on the mountaintop. Vampyr might be out there somewhere, but Nosferatu didn’t know where the other Undead was.

Nosferatu growled. A bird fluttered out of a nearby tree in fright. All had been stolen from him. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Blood. Human blood. To his right, upriver. He turned in that direction, moving through the jungle like a ghost, able to see clearly even under the thickest canopy that blocked out all starlight and moonlight.

He came upon a village. A thicket of thorn bushes surrounded the perimeter; a single entrance with only one branch and a youth with a spear barred the way. Nosferatu ran forward, leapt the thicket, and was on the young warrior in a flash. His teeth ripped through the tender flesh, bringing forth a gush of blood. Even as the artery continued to spurt red sustenance, he lifted his face and glared about. Another warrior was coming, spear leveled. Nosferatu jumped up, knocked aside the warrior’s thrust, and jumped on the man’s back, teeth sinking into the throat, ripping and tearing. The warrior screamed, then the sound died as Nosferatu tore in farther, his teeth cutting through the man’s windpipe.

He threw the warrior from him and bellowed out a challenge, his face and chest covered in blood. He could see faces appear in the doorways of huts. Men staring with wide eyes. Women fluttering behind them, yelling at their children to hide from the demon that had invaded their village.

“Come,” he screamed, throwing his arms wide, exposing his chest. “Come and get me.” He didn’t even realize he was speaking in the language of the Gods and that none could understand his words, although his intent was clear.

None rose to the challenge. All remained indoors, weapons at the ready, watching Nosferatu’s rage spill out in screams and curses.

Sanity slowly returned as his throat knotted up in pain from the yelling. Backing up, Nosferatu left the village and disappeared into the darkness. He found a small cave along the riverbank and slid into it, covering himself with leaves and bushes for the coming day.

He lay there as the sun made its way overhead, occasionally slipping into an uneasy sleep. Each time he woke, he was shaking and sweating. As darkness fell, he left the hasty lair and searched for a way to cross the river. When he approached the village he’d attacked the previous evening, he could see numerous warriors manning the perimeter and a large fire stoked up just inside the thorn barrier. He circumambulated the village and came upon several dugout canoes pulled up on the riverbank. He took one and shoved it into the dark brown water. Snatching up the paddle, he began to stroke, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

After several minutes he realized that while he was indeed making it across the river, the strong current was also carrying him from left to right. Nosferatu tried to pull harder but was seized by muscle spasms that almost caused him to drop the paddle. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and his forehead felt as if it were on fire. He feared that one of those he had fed upon had been ill and he had drawn in the sickness. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, trying to clear the sweat pouring into his eyes.

When he could see again, he realized the current would win. He would be swept into the ocean long before he reached the far bank. He looked over his shoulder and realized the bank he had left from was also out of reach. He was too sick to care. He put the paddle down and curled up in a tight ball on the rough wood bottom of the canoe.

Nosferatu woke in greater pain and discomfort than when he’d passed out. The first rays of the sun were slashing across the edge of the canoe just above him and he couldn’t open his eyes to their brightness. He heard no sound of land — no winds in trees, no cries of bird or animal, just the sound of water against the outside of the canoe.

Nosferatu could feel the heat of the sun closing on him, edging down the inside of the canoe. He knew he had no choice. He grabbed one side of the canoe and rolled, bringing it down over him as he fell into the water.

He popped his head up under the security of the canoe and slowly treaded water.

It was a very long day. Several times, Nosferatu felt something brush by his legs and feet; but he kept his eyes shut, for even the sun reflected through the ocean water was too much for his delicate pupils. As soon as the sun set, he righted the canoe and collapsed inside it, his legs quivering from the day. Sitting up, he peered about but saw only ocean in all directions. He had no clue which way to head to try to get back to land.

Nosferatu lay on his back and watched the stars wheel by overhead, conserving his energy. He realized it was the first time he had ever really looked at the stars — strange, given he was a creature of the night. But then he had spent the time of darkness either hunting or traveling, not contemplating the little points of light overhead. When he had been a child it was whispered the stars were where the Gods came from. And then Donnchadh had told him the same thing. How could that be? he wondered. How could they come from such small places? Of course, if the points of light were far away, then he imagined they might be very large.

Nosferatu cursed both the Gods and the stars as the sky above him began to brighten, indicating another day’s beginning. He waited until the last moment before rolling the canoe over and entering the water.

As the day progressed, he contemplated simply letting go and sinking into the dark depths. All that kept his grip on the edge of the canoe and his legs slowly moving to keep his head above water was the image of Nekhbet.

By the eighth day even that image had faded. He was only aware of exhaustion, wetness, and despair. That night he sat in the canoe and looked about. Stars and sea were the only things visible.

The Gods had given him life for their own selfish purposes. For over three hundred years, they had consumed his life for their pleasure. Since then he had been hiding, running, like a frightened child, for thousands of years.

Why?

What was the overall purpose of life? The goal of the Gods? Why did they treat other living beings as they did?

Nosferatu blinked. There was a glow on the horizon behind him. He stared at it for almost a minute, then picked up the paddle and began to stroke. For a little while he thought his eyes were fooling him as the glow faded, but then it became brighter. Soon he could see flames shooting into the sky, then the shoreline. A fire was raging in the tall grass, coming closer to the shore. Nosferatu could see herds of animals running, trying to escape the flames. And on the shoreline, bands of humans waiting for the kill. Nosferatu felt the pull of the hunger.

Nosferatu had fed well the previous night. He strode north along the beach, miles flowing past in the darkness. It appeared that he had come back to land farther up the coast from where he’d been pushed out to sea. Instead of jungle, lush grassland stretched out to the interior of the continent. Several times he saw villages ahead and made slight detours to pass around them and their barking dogs unless he had to feed.

He continued up the coast like this for almost a full moon, feeding twice more. The grassland began to give way to rocks and desert, and early one evening, shortly after he set out, he saw a two-story stone tower on a finger of land enclosing a small natural harbor. Several boats were anchored in the cove. They were of a type he had never seen, with an upthrust, curved prow and a tall mast in its center. They were made of wood planks, not reeds, and as large as the barges that hauled stone on the Nile, but sleeker.

There was light in the windows in both levels of the tower and Nosferatu could see a pair of guards with bows on the top. As he got closer he could see that there were several stone-and-wood buildings at the base of the tower. Soon he could hear voices coming from one of the buildings. Nosferatu halted and contemplated the situation. He was hungry, but not desperate. And these men had ships. Pulling his cloak tight around his lean body, he walked forward.

One of the guards spotted him and called out a warning. Nosferatu halted and held up both hands, empty palms out. Several men scrambled out of the building and came up to him, swords drawn. They spoke in a strange tongue, but once again, the universal language worked as Nosferatu drew out several gold pieces from his purse and offered them.

The men took him into the building and offered him food and drink, which he made a pretense of consuming. What did catch his attention, however, was a piece of hide staked to one wall. A map was drawn on it. Seeing his interest, one of the men walked him toward it.

The man pointed at a spot near the bottom of the map, then pointed down at the ground, indicating that was where they were currently located. Nosferatu put his finger on the spot, then ran it up along the coast, around through a narrow strait and into the Middle Sea, along the coast until he reached what he knew was the Nile. Then he pointed at himself.

The man nodded. He pointed to a spot above Egypt along the eastern edge of the Mediterranean, then at himself. “Phoenicia.”

Nosferatu had never heard of the country, but he knew much had changed while he slept. How much, he hoped to find out. Jingling his purse, he indicated himself once more, then Egypt.

The man frowned and called out to one of the others. The man who came over was weathered by the sea and old. He had a scar running down one side of his face, disappearing into the collar of his dirty shirt. The first man pointed at Egypt, then said something as he indicated Nosferatu.

The old man shook his head and spit. He pointed to a land on the north side of the sea, west of Egypt’s location. Apparently that was where he was going, Nosferatu realized, as the two men argued some more. It was closer than he was now. Nosferatu opened his purse and paid the old man.

While the legend was that the Three Hundred had died to the last man in the Gates of Fire at Thermopylae in 480 B.C., the real number was actually 299.

Three hundred Spartans had indeed marched with King Leonidas against King Xerxes and met his massive Persian army of 150,000 men in battle in the narrow pass.

The Spartans had held for four days, allowing the rest of the city-states of Greece to mobilize and eventually defeat the invaders. It was an event celebrated in song and onstage across Greece, no place more so than in Sparta. There was one who knew the truth of the Three Hundred. One who still walked the face of the Earth over 125 years after the famous battle. He was the Three Hundredth, and he was not a man. He stood on the parade field of Sparta, just as he had so many years ago, and watched as the army mustered for battle, just as it had so many years ago, and so many times since.

Vampyr had fought at Thermopylae as long as possible, before slipping away into the night, leaving his comrades to be massacred to the last man. Even now, years later, he saw no point to the famous last stand. Yes, it eventually led to victory for the allied Greek cities, but not long after, those same city-states had fallen once more into battle among themselves in the First and then Second Peloponnesian War. Men who had fought side by side against the Persians were within a few years lining up against each other in mortal combat.

Such was the folly of humans, and such folly was fodder for one who lived on hatred and blood.

Vampyr remained in Sparta because it was the first place he felt at home among the humans. The rest of Greece viewed Sparta as a bizarre enigma. While the arts were celebrated elsewhere, only martial prowess was rewarded in Sparta. The entire city-state was set up to support the army. From 404–371 B.C. Sparta had ruled most of Greece, despite being heavily outnumbered and never being able to field more than ten thousand men. The strain of this rule, though, had taken its toll, and over the past fifteen years, the kingdom had relinquished much territory back to the locals.

Sparta was located in the southwest, connected to the rest of Greece by a narrow isthmus. Vampyr had wandered there after being able to stow away on a ship leaving Crete over a thousand years earlier. He’d hidden his tube in a cave on the southern shore of Peloponnese and gone into the deep sleep for over five hundred years, hoping to have enough time pass for his rule in Crete to be recalled only as legend.

When he awoke he traveled around Greece, taking in the burgeoning civilization, before settling in Sparta. At first he did so out of black humor, as the people there claimed to be descended from Lacedaemon, a son of the god Zeus. Also, he was able to feed with relative impunity because of the way the classes were stratified. There were the Spartiates, who could fight and vote; the Perioikoi, or freemen, who did not have the vote but were graciously allowed to fight and die for the state; and the helots, who — while technically not slaves — were only slighter better off than if they had been, and on whom Vampyr could feed relatively unnoticed.

Three lochoi of Spartan warriors were lined up in formation in front of the Hellenion — the temple — preparing to depart for war against Pylos on the western coast of Peloponnesia. It was just before dawn. Vampyr had fought in so many campaigns he actually had no clue what real or imagined cause was behind the upcoming battle. He had changed his identity six times over the centuries, earning his way each time into the ranks of the knights through feats of arms, rather than by family as most did.

The squires and battle train had departed before dawn, as they rated no fond farewell. The families of the knights who made up the ranks of the lochoi stood in the shadow of the temple, stoically keeping tears at bay. The boys of the agoge — training barracks — not old enough to come on the campaign, stood in their own formation watching their fathers, older brothers, and uncles prepare to leave.

The commander of the expedition, Acton, turned for the road leading west and the women began to sing a hymn to the god of battle. Row after row of Spartans stepped from the grass field onto the dirt road and headed to the west.

Battle. Vampyr had grown to love it over the years. He’d honed his skills until he was the most feared warrior in Sparta, and thus in all of Greece. That combined with his inherent abilities made him practically invincible and his leaders were inclined to grant him latitude regarding his strange behavior. He was never around during the day unless there was to be a battle, and then he was completely garbed in armor from head to toe, with a cloth wrapped across his eyes to guard them from the light. He’d explained that he had a defect which did not allow him to expose any part of his skin or his eyes to the light, and such was his prowess with arms that the other Spartans gladly allowed him this idiosyncrasy.

So as the sun began to rise in the east, Vampyr slipped away from the column and disappeared into the forest along the side of the road.

It was the easiest journey Nosferatu had made so far even though it took the better part of six months. The Phoenician’s ship had a lower deck, where Nosferatu could sleep in darkness. The large sails and the skill with which the crew maneuvered the ship moved them up the coast at a faster pace than anything Nosferatu had experienced before. They even sailed at night, stopping only about every eight days at another outpost like the one at which Nosferatu had met them. They would refill their water casks, load fresh food, and spend a day resting. Then set out again.

Nosferatu realized the outposts were spaced that way for a reason, indicating a sophisticated trading system. He would feed just prior to departure, taking someone from the outpost and hiding the body so that it couldn’t be found. Usually they left before the loss was even discovered, although twice a search was instigated before they set sail. The second time, Nosferatu knew the Phoenician captain was suspicious, but a few more pieces of gold ensured his continued presence on the ship.

Still Nosferatu slept lightly during the days, anxious that the crew might turn on him at any time. He found he could maintain a half-sleeping, half-waking posture during the day, so that the approach of anyone would bring him to full awareness. They passed from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean after a month’s journey and he could sense the relief of the crew to be in more familiar waters. He also began to understand some of what they said and learned they were a people who sailed not only south along Africa, but north along Atlantic coast of Europe. Their ships had been crisscrossing the Mediterranean pursuing trade for hundreds of years and they had colonized both the northern shores of Africa and eastern Spain from their homeland in Palestine.

The most interesting news was that Egypt was now ruled by the Persians, the last Pharaoh having been defeated in battle just a few years earlier. Nosferatu had never heard of the Persians, but he had the ship’s captain point out the Persian Empire on the map and show him where its capital was.

If foreigners ruled in Egypt, was it safe for him to venture there? Would he be able to get to the Grail and take it to Nekhbet? Where were the four remaining Airlia?

The Phoenicians had Gods they worshipped, with names Nosferatu did not recognize; but they were not the same as the Gods he had known in Egypt. Every morning the crew knelt in front of several small idols placed in the bow of the ship. They prayed for fair weather and a wind at their backs and for safety from the wiles of the sea. Nosferatu didn’t understand praying to an object. What power could a piece of stone hold? At least the Gods who had ruled Egypt had been real.

After several days of sailing with no shore in sight — another advancement over Nosferatu’s last voyage — they made landfall at a port city called Selinus on an island the locals called Sicily. Things had changed, he realized as he roamed the city at night, looking for a victim to sate his hunger, yet in many ways, they had remained the same. There were new empires and gods, but people and technology seemed to be basically unaltered. In fact, other than their having the sailing ships, Nosferatu judged the Phoenicians to be inferior to the Egyptian culture he had known. And they knew nothing of history. Their societal memory only went back a few generations. He had heard no mention of Atlantis or the Great Civil War among the Gods.

Nosferatu spent the week the ship stayed in Selinus feeding and listening. He heard nothing of the Airlia, the Ones Who Wait, the Guides, or anything else to do with the Gods from the stars and their minions. Perhaps the world was free of them? Nosferatu could wonder and hope.

They sailed from Selinus, around the foot of Italy, to the ship’s final destination, Athens, one of the main city-states of the most powerful empire in the Mediterranean, according to what Nosferatu had picked up from the conversations he listened in on. From what he had learned he knew he could find another ship to take him from Athens to Egypt. He stayed belowdecks after they docked in Piraeus, the port city of Athens, waiting for nightfall. By the time he departed the ship, the cargo had been unloaded and the crew was gone, off to the local taverns to celebrate the successful completion of their long journey and the surprising and pleasant addition of Nosferatu’s gold.

Athens was very different from Selinus. Nosferatu wandered the streets of the city, impressed with the architecture, but even more so with the discourse in the various public meeting places sprinkled throughout the city. He spent several weeks simply soaking in the conversation, learning the language. There was a difference to the people here, something Nosferatu sensed even before he understood the words.

It took him a few evenings before it suddenly came to him what was different about these people from what he had known in Egypt. Here they had a sense of the future.

In Egypt, life had been cyclical. There was little sense of time because all things repeated themselves and there was no progress. Here life was linear. Ideas were discussed and argued about. People were asking why, something that had been frowned upon in Nosferatu’s Egypt. He wondered if it were the absence of the Gods and the high priests that allowed this freedom of thought. The Greeks had Gods, many of them, but they appeared to be more a theory than a reality. Something people even argued about along with everything else. In Egypt the price for doubting the Airlia Gods or the high priests had been death.

Nosferatu fed well, taking those who also walked the night, usually thieves and prostitutes who worked near the docks of Piraeus, and who would not be missed. He was feeling stronger and more confident that he could return to Egypt and rescue Nekhbet when he heard a word as he was passing a group of men gathered on stone steps in front of a temple that froze him in his tracks.

Atlantis.

The sun had set only an hour previously, but Nosferatu had already fed, taking a young man who had tried to rob him as he walked a back alley after rising from his hiding place underneath a wharf. Nosferatu edged closer to the group. The man at the center had white hair and a long beard. He had a scroll in his hand. “You speak of the Flood of Deukalion and Pyrrha, Solon,” the old man read, “but I tell you they pale in comparison to that which destroyed Atlantis. There have been and will be many destroyers of mankind, the greatest two of which are fire and water.”

The old man looked past the group at Nosferatu, who was now along the outer circle of men listening. Nosferatu was startled by the sharpness of the glance and almost stepped back, but held his ground, interested to hear what the old man had to read. This was also something that was new, the only other written language Nosferatu had seen before being the High Runes of the Airlia.

“Many are the truths and great are the achievement of the Greeks,” the old man continued. “However, there is one accomplishment that is rarely spoken of, and that many think is a myth. A long time ago, before the time when the Dorians came to this land, our ancestors fought a great battle against a host that came from beyond the sea, from beyond the Pillars of Heracles, and were led by Gods themselves.

“Beyond the Pillars there was an island larger than Libya and Asia put together. On this island was a confederation of powerful kings who ruled not only that island but many other lands. The empire of Atlantis stretched through the Pillars of Heracles to Libya as far as Egypt, and Europe as far as Tyrrhenia, but in a noble battle we stopped them from extending their rule here to Greece.

“Not long after, there was a great earthquake which caused the sea to swallow the island of Atlantis up in its entirety so that it disappeared from the face of the Earth.”

The last part agreed with what Nosferatu had learned as a child, but the bit about the Greeks defeating the Airlia and their Atlantean human forces, he thought, wasn’t very likely. He checked that thought. If the battle had taken place during the Airlia civil war, then it was possible that the Greeks had had the assistance of Artad and his forces. Even the priests had known few details of the Great Civil War.

“You, stranger.” The old man startled Nosferatu by pointing directly at him. “What do you know of these things?”

“Why do ask me?” Nosferatu replied. “I have seen your kind before.”

Nosferatu felt a chill pass through his body. “What do you mean my kind?”

“Tall. White skin like the finest marble. And most important your eyes, my friend, they speak of having seen much, as did he to whom I talked.”

“Did this man, who you think is my kin, have a name?”

“He called himself a Shadow of Aspasia, whatever that might mean.”

Nosferatu remembered Kajilil speaking of the creature, a creation of Aspasia, the Airlia commander. “When did you speak with him?” “So you know him?” the old man asked in reply.

“I have heard of him, but I do not know him.”

“He was here two days ago. I have met him several times. We have had the most interesting conversations.”

Nosferatu felt the hope of the past few weeks collapse.

“So what do you know of Atlantis, my friend?” the old man pressed.

“Nothing,” Nosferatu muttered as he turned and slipped away into the darkness. He wandered the streets of Athens, wondering what he should do next. If Aspasia’s Shadow is here in Athens, who is in Egypt, in the Roads of Rostau? Where are the Gods?

He sensed more than saw the blade coming at him. Reacting, Nosferatu jumped to the side, the knife slicing the air where a split second ago his throat had been. The attacker followed through on the strike, wheeling, bringing the blade to bear once more. Nosferatu retreated, but his back hit the wall of a building and his attacker maneuvered to trap him.

“Who are you?” Nosferatu demanded, holding his hands up in front of himself in a defensive posture. He felt as if he were looking into a mirror — a tall man wrapped in a dark cloak with pale skin and red hair. The eyes, though, caught his attention. Red and elongated like a cat’s. “Aspasia’s Shadow?”

In reply the man thrust with the dagger. At the same moment there was a flash of metal coming down from the right, smoothly slicing through the man’s arm, severing it at the elbow. The hand holding the dagger fell to the stone street. Nosferatu watched with wide eyes as the sword cut back, piercing his attacker’s chest. The man collapsed to the ground as Nosferatu turned to face the wielder of the sword.

“I am Aspasia’s Shadow,” the man said. He wiped the blood off the sword, using the dead man’s cloak. “This is a One Who Waits.” Aspasia’s Shadow reached inside the dead man’s tunic and removed a small object from a chain around his neck. Nosferatu had seen such a shape before — the ka, two hands without a torso raised as in prayer. Aspasia’s Shadow put it inside a pocket and in turn pulled out a small glass vial filled with what appeared to be black sand. He unscrewed the lid, then shook the black powder over the body. Immediately the flesh began to disappear as if the sand were eating it. Within ten seconds there was only the empty clothing lying in the street.

Aspasia’s Shadow stood. “You are Nosferatu.”

It was not a question, so Nosferatu remained silent as Aspasia’s Shadow sheathed his sword.

“Come.” Aspasia’s Shadow did not bother to look over his shoulder as he headed down the alley. Nosferatu paused to retrieve the assassin’s dagger, then followed.

After a little way around the base of the Acropolis, Aspasia’s Shadow passed between two statues, literally into the base of the hill on which the Parthenon stood. Nosferatu followed him down worn stone steps. They paused at the bottom, where a wooden door made of scarred beams barred the way. Aspasia’s Shadow did something that Nosferatu couldn’t quite see and the door smoothly swung open.

The two entered and the door swung shut behind them. Nosferatu could see quite well in the dark, but he winced when Aspasia’s Shadow lit a lantern. Shading his eyes, he followed the other along a tunnel cut through the stone of the Acropolis.

“This tunnel was made by some of the first people who lived here,” Aspasia’s Shadow said, his first words in a while. “They must have put a fort on the top of this hill, then cut this tunnel as an escape route, or perhaps a way to get water. Who knows? It must have taken them many years. I imagine it took generations of these people chipping away at the stone with their simple tools. Humans are a most strange species. Most of the time their attention span is that of any animal, short. But then they do something like this. Most strange.”

They turned a corner and entered a chamber containing a table, some chairs, and a bed. Aspasia’s Shadow put the lantern on the table. He glanced at Nosferatu. “Does this hurt your eyes?” “Yes.”

Aspasia’s Shadow made no effort to turn the lamp down. He sat in a chair and leaned back, putting his boots up on the table. Nosferatu took the seat across from him, one hand on the dagger hidden under his cloak, the other shading his eyes.

“I should kill you for slaying Isis and Osiris,” Aspasia’s Shadow said. “If I were true to the persona that was implanted in me so many years ago when I was made by Aspasia. It was Aspasia who left Isis and Osiris, his lieutenants, in charge in Egypt.” Aspasia’s Shadow sighed. “But much has happened in the years since then. I have walked this planet longer than you. And I assume you have slept some of those years in the tube — something I have done also on occasion. I have been reborn many, many times. My memory and my experience grow even as I switch from one body to the next.”

Nosferatu remained silent, his hand still on the dagger.

“I met Osiris and Isis and the other four several times. They always treated me with contempt because I was a Shadow, and human in form. When I heard Isis and Osiris had been killed I did not shed any tears.”

“Where did they go?” Nosferatu asked. “The four who lived?”

“Why do you want to know?” Aspasia’s Shadow did not wait for an answer. “Where is your love? Nekhbet, the one you stole from the Roads?”

Nosferatu remained silent. Aspasia’s Shadow laced his fingers together on his lap and regarded Nosferatu for several moments, as if pondering a problem. “She sleeps, doesn’t she? Or else you would be with her. And you seek something. Blood. Airlia blood. The human blood keeps you alive, allows you to maintain, but you need Airlia blood for her, don’t you?”

Nosferatu realized he was dealing with the only other being on the planet, besides the Gods, who had lived longer than he and had more experience. Plus, Aspasia’s Shadow had inherited Aspasia’s knowledge along with his own experience.

“Or more likely, you desire the Grail,” Aspasia’s Shadow said. “Wouldn’t we all?” He sighed. “But the key to the Hall of Records, where it is kept, had been hidden well by the Watchers. Even I don’t know where it is now. Plus, I have had to put aside that temptation because activating the Grail would bring both Artad and Aspasia after me. It is the one thing that is forbidden even to me.”

Still Nosferatu remained silent. It occurred to him that Aspasia’s Shadow was bored. More than bored, Nosferatu realized. Aspasia’s Shadow was lonely, a feeling that Nosferatu could certainly understand.

“I’ve met Vampyr, your brother in blood,” Aspasia’s Shadow continued. He seemed disappointed that Nosferatu still made no reply. “He, at least, makes the world an interesting place. He had a kingdom. On an island south of here. He was getting quite powerful and earning quite a fearsome reputation. I feared I might have to take action, but the planet itself brought his plans, quite literally, to ruin.”

Nosferatu had no idea what Aspasia’s Shadow was referring to. “He did take his revenge though,” Aspasia’s Shadow said. “You asked about the other four Airlia who dwelt in the Roads. Vampyr killed them. They are dead in their tubes.”

His father was dead. Nosferatu felt neither elation nor sadness. He thought back to his proud boast to Kajilil about there being a time for the Undead to rule. He looked at the creature across from him and realized this war would never end. Power was a dangerous thing. The only reason Aspasia’s Shadow did not kill him was because he posed little threat. Nosferatu shook his head, trying to clear the flurry of thoughts that Aspasia’s Shadow’s words crowded into his mind.

Aspasia’s Shadow mistook the gesture. “You do not believe me?”

“I believe you,” Nosferatu said. “Vampyr vowed vengeance many years ago. I am surprised it took him so long.”

“It took him so long because I stopped him all the times before,” Aspasia’s Shadow said.

“And why not this time?”

“I was tired. And I cannot be everywhere. Vampyr chose a time when the kingdom in Egypt was in disarray.”

“Where is Vampyr now?” “Not far away.” “Where?”

“To the south. He has spent the last two centuries fighting. Spilling blood. And drinking it, of course. He revels in it. It keeps his mind from other things.”

From the reality of being alone for centuries, Nosferatu thought. He realized that the three of them had that one thing very much in common. “Why did you save me?” Nosferatu asked.

“I know where you can find Airlia blood. And you are free to take it if you can.”

“Where?”

Aspasia’s Shadow pointed to his left. “China.”

Nosferatu had never heard of the place. “And where is that?”

“To the east. Very far to the east. Farther than any here have ever traveled.” Aspasia’s Shadow leaned back in his seat and regarded Nosferatu with hooded eyes. “I will do you a favor, my Undead friend, if you will do one for me.”

“And that is?”

“Kill Artad and his Kortad. You can have their blood.” “By myself?”

“No, you would need an army to do this. They are asleep, in a mountain tomb called Qian-Ling in the land called China.”

Nosferatu spread his hands. “I have no army.”

“Not to worry,” Aspasia’s Shadow said. “I’ve prepared one. And I’ve prepared their leader. He is but a boy now, but eventually, with my help, he will go far. Perhaps he may even reach China.”

“What is his name?”

“Alexander, son of Philip, from a small state north of here called Macedonia.”

Vampyr wrapped the cloth around his head, covering his skin and eyes. The material was blood-red and he could see through it in daylight, which was less than a half hour away. The effect was terrifying, but it did have its disadvantages. The warrior with the red face had become a legend in the area around Sparta, and sometimes Vampyr had a difficult time finding enemies to engage during battle.

It had been a long march to Pylos. Wandering the camp at night and listening, Vampyr had learned that this expedition had nothing to do with politics. It was purely for economic reasons. The three lochoi were being rented out to another city-state, Pirgos, in conflict with Pylos.

Fighting for money.

Vampyr looked to the right of the three Spartan units. The local militia from Pirgos was forming in uneven ranks to help support what they had paid the Spartans to lead. In reality, Vampyr knew they were there to loot the city once the Spartans defeated their enemy.

Dawn was not far off and with it death. Vampyr could smell the fear in the air. Even from some of the Spartans, as well trained as they were in the art of logophobia — the discipline of conquering fear and controlling one’s body — were giving off a palpable aura.

They had reason, of course, to be scared. Every battle hinged on uncertainty. It was also not so much a matter of killing the enemy as breaking their spirit and these foes would be defending their homes and families, a circumstance that made for the most desperate fighting.

Overall, though, the Spartans were calm. Vampyr had gone through their training as an adult, a most unusual thing, as Spartan boys were sent from their homes to an agoge — training barracks — at age seven. He had been sponsored by one of the leading knights in the city after saving the man’s life in battle and asking only this favor of him. On the first day some of the older boys had made fun of the man among them, but Vampyr had quelled that quickly and brutally by killing the leader of the bullies. In the strange way of the Spartans, he was not punished for doing so, but praised and accepted.

The training had been worth it. Despite his Airlia blood, Vampyr was still predominantly human and he had realized long ago that that part of his being required discipline and training in order to survive over the years.

The focus of Spartan training was more than just martial prowess. It encompassed the body and mind, with a specific emphasis on the science of fear. Initially, the trainees were taught to control their muscles when every instinct they had screamed to do other than that which they were ordered to. They participated in exercises where they had to stand perfectly still and blindfolded while instructors walked among the ranks, unexpectedly striking out with a wooden stake. In this manner the muscles were disciplined against their natural fleeing instincts. A man thus trained held a great advantage in combat over one who did not possess this capability.

Looking out from the plain they were on, Vampyr could see the walled city of Pylos,which was their objective. The ground rose in a gentle slope up to the walls. Not favorable terrain for an assault.

Muffled orders were being issued and the lines were being formed. The Spartans would be out in front, the local Pirgosian militia sliding over to take a position behind them. Vampyr felt quite ready to spill some blood. He had not fed in over eight weeks while on the march. It was a deprivation he suffered deliberately to build his lust for the coming battle.

As the main line formed, a skirmish line of Rangers — Skiritai — began to move out on the flanks like the horns of a bull. Vampyr had seen this tactic used again and again, and it rarely failed to work. He knew the Spartan commander did not want to lay siege to the town. It would be time-consuming and difficult, requiring the construction of siege machines followed by a dangerous assault against a fortified position. Spartans fought best in the open ground.

Vampyr took his place in the center of the Spartan line, directly behind the commander, Acton. It was lighter now, and even the humans around Vampyr could see the city and the men manning the walls. The sun’s light was amplified by a red glow as the Skiritai began to set fire to the homes and businesses that surrounded the walled part of the city. Crops also began to burn. The people might be safe inside, but their homes and livelihoods were mostly outside and being destroyed while they watched.

It only took fifteen minutes, before the gates of the city swung open and the Pylosian troops poured through. There was no hesitation on Acton’s part. He immediately gave the order to advance and the Spartans moved out into the field toward the city at a quick pace as the Pylosians tried to get into formation.

The Spartans were in perfect alignment as they moved, their spears held upright. If one stood to the side and looked along the line, it would appear as if there were only one spear at the end in each rank, so perfect was their training. In contrast, the spears of the first rank of Pylosian troops to form trembled and shook as if in a storm.

Vampyr could hear the Pylosian officers screaming commands, trying to get their men into proper formation. He knew it was already too late. The front rank of enemy troops could see the Spartans coming and began to shift without even realizing it, each man moving slightly to his right, trying to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man on that side. To add to their disarray, the Skiritai began to fire their bows, sending arrows high into the air, coming down in the half-formed enemy ranks.

Just as intimidating as the sight of the red-cloaked lines approaching was the sound the Spartans made, their oxhide sandals hitting the ground in unison with each step, the ground practically trembling at their approach. The cadence was 120 paces per minute, beaten into each Spartan at the agoge and practiced constantly.

Less than a quarter mile from the Pylosian lines, Acton yelled the order to change from quick time to charge. Spears snapped in one precise movement from vertical to horizontal and shields jammed tighter together, presenting a solid wall as the Spartans broke into a controlled run at 180 steps per minute. Vampyr adjusted slightly as Acton fell back into position next to him on his right, a position of honor for Vampyr as his shield protected the commander.

The Pylosian lines had never completely formed, and what little order there was began to break in the face of the bristling juggernaut heading toward them. Some in the rear tried to run and were cut down by officers stationed there specifically for just that event.

Vampyr felt the bloodlust and had to use all the discipline he had learned in the agoge not to sprint ahead of the rank of Spartans. He gripped his spear shaft tighter as they closed on the enemy line. The Spartans smashed into the Pylosians with a thunderous sound of spearpoint on metal and flesh. This was immediately followed by the screams of dying and wounded.

With their eight-foot spears, the Spartans were able to use their first three ranks to attack the Pylosians. As soon as a spear became caught in the flesh or shield of an enemy warrior and could not be pulled back, each Spartan would draw his xithos — a short sword designed for jabbing rather than slashing.

The Pylosian line broke and the slaughter began. Vampyr had run his spear through not only the warrior directly in front of him, but also into the man behind him, spitting the two on its wooden haft, leaving them both writhing on the ground. He drew his sword and leapt forward, giving up his position in the Spartan line. The Pylosians were fleeing and thus making themselves more vulnerable to attack due to the lack of armor on their backs. Vampyr jabbed once, twice, then a third time and three men went down at his feet. He whirled, and even though the sword was a jabbing weapon, he put such power behind the stroke that his xithos beheaded a fourth Pylosian. For the first time Vampyr halted, watching the blood pulse up from the still-beating heart in the headless torso, which remained upright for several seconds, before slowly tumbling over.

That man’s blood mixed with that of the other casualties along with urine from bladders emptied from fright and the spasms of death. The ground was turning into a horrible quagmire, but the Spartans relentlessly pressed forward, continuing to slay and advance.

The Pylosians began to surrender and beg for mercy. Vampyr gave no quarter, slaying those with weapons in their hands and those who held them empty in the air. Those who had hired the Spartans now surged forward, slaying those who surrendered. Vampyr continued his own murderous spree toward the gates of the city. He saw the enemy commander, tears streaming down his face, as he screamed futile orders at the warriors fleeing by him, trying to make a last stand before the open city gates, knowing there would be no safety inside.

Vampyr was soaked in blood, the cloth wrapped around his face tantalizing him with the taste as the red nectar he craved seeped through. He bounded up to the enemy commander. He parried the other’s thrust, knocking the sword from the defeated leader’s hands. Vampyr dropped his own sword and grabbed the man’s throat with both hands, squeezing until the other passed out. Then he dragged him into the gates of the city and through the door of the nearest building, where he ripped the man’s throat open and drank his fill.

He was not sated.

The screams of women and children now filled the air as the Pirgosians moved into the city, raping, killing, and stealing. The Spartans remained outside, content with the gold they had been paid and not wanting to lose any more men to desperate last stands inside the city.

Vampyr was the exception as he kicked open doors, searching. He found a woman huddled with two young children. He killed the mother quickly by breaking her neck, then drank from the children until their small hearts stopped beating. He emerged from the house, wrapping the cloth around his face. In his engorged pleasure he did not see a shadowy figure in armor watching him.

He could not wait for the next battle.

He walked out of the city. He could see that the Spartans had pulled back, tending to their few dead and wounded. He also saw that a man on a horse, a messenger from Sparta, was next to Acton, talking to him. Vampyr made his way over. There was indeed news.

A council had been held at Corinth. A treaty had been signed by representatives from practically every city-state, including Pylos and Pirgos, to unite under a young warrior-king from the north named Alexander. Sparta had also agreed to the pact and would send four lochoi to support the new king’s proposed assault against the Persians.

Vampyr wanted to laugh at the folly of humans. Every man who had died that day was one less the Greeks could send against the Persians. And all three forces were now allies.

A campaign to the east. Vampyr nodded. Something to occupy the next decade or so. He needed to stay busy.

As Vampyr turned away from Acton and the messenger, he sensed movement behind and whirled, a split second too late, and the flat side of a xithos slammed into his temple, just below the brim of his helmet.

Vampyr crumpled to the ground unconscious.

It was night when Vampyr awoke. He was on his back and when he tried to move, ropes around his chest, legs, and arms, kept him in place. There were torches flickering all about him and when he turned his head, he could see Acton and the other senior knights of the expedition staring at him. He was on one of the field tables used by the surgeons to work on the wounded.

“What are you doing?” Vampyr demanded. “I am a warrior of the first rank.”

Acton stepped forward. “I do not know who — or what — you are. But I saw what you did with those two children in the town. And I — we all — have heard the stories about you. That you do not age. That you never expose yourself to the light of day. That you drink blood, something I now know to be true, having seen it with my own eyes.”

“So?” Vampyr spit, the glob landing just in front of the Spartan commander. “I am the most feared warrior in all of Sparta, in all of Greece. What does it matter if I drink blood when we spill gallons every day?”

“There are the matters of honor and the code of a warrior,” Acton said. Vampyr laughed. “Honor? What honor is there in fighting against a city one day, then marching arm in arm with the same people you were just fighting against, to fight against some other city or empire? I have seen nothing of honor among you.”

“There is the honor of following orders. Of being true to those who are your comrades. You can barely restrain yourself to stay in the shield wall and when we make contact with the enemy line you always break formation and battle on your own. I gave you the position at my side not out of honor, as it should be, but because I did not want to expose anyone else to your recklessness and disregard for your fellow warriors.”

“I slay more enemy than any five of you combined,” Vampyr boasted, glaring at the knights.

“If it was just about slaying,” Acton said, “then butchers would reap many honors.”

Vampyr snarled, trying with all his might to rise, but there were numerous ropes wrapped around his body, and all he could achieve was lifting his head. “You fools. What do you think you’re doing? Are you going to kill me?”

“There would be no honor in that,” Acton said. “And you have fought for Sparta for as long as any can remember.”

“You have no idea what I have done for Sparta,” Vampyr shouted. “I was one of the Three Hundred. I stood with Leonidas in the Gates of Fire.”

Acton took a step back, startled by these words. “That cannot be. That was many lifetimes ago. No man can be alive from then.” Vampyr said nothing.

“You are not a man, are you?” Acton finally asked. He turned to his left and gestured. A man stepped out of the darkness into the torchlight. An old man with long white hair, leaning heavily on a cane, dressed in a long black robe that was worn and dirty. “It is as you said,” Acton said to the newcomer. “He is not human.”

“Who is this?” Vampyr demanded.

“My name is Tyrn,” the old man said, speaking Greek with a strange accent. “I have traveled long and far to come here. I am of the Wedjat.”

Vampyr was surprised for the first time in many centuries and it showed on his face.

The old man nodded. “You know the word from the ancient tongue and you know what it means.”

Vampyr remained silent.

Tyrn looked at Acton. “He has walked the Earth much longer than Sparta has existed. He is one of the Undead. I have read of his kind in the records of my order. They are a blasphemy of mankind.”

There was murmuring from the ranks of the knights at these words. “He lies,” Vampyr said.

“He does not lie,” Acton said simply. “He said you drink blood and that has long been the rumor in the agoge. I followed you into the town and saw you do exactly that with my own eyes. He says you have lived a very long time. And you yourself said you were at the Battle of Thermopylae, something impossible for any man still alive.”

“He must be killed,” Tyrn said. “He is an affront to mankind.”

“Easy, old man,” Acton said, putting a hand on Tyrn’s shoulder. “He is a Spartan. He earned that, regardless of where he came from or even what he is.” “Let me go and I will leave Sparta,” Vampyr said. “I am done with people’s petty squabbles anyway.”

Acton held up his xithos. “As you learned in the agoge, a sword has two edges. Because you earned being a Spartan, I will not kill you. But, I cannot allow you to leave being what you are and having learned what we taught you. If you leave Sparta, you must leave behind what Sparta gave you.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Vampyr demanded.

Acton walked up to the field table. He slid his xithos into its scabbard, and then held a hand out to his rear. A knight came walking up with a bloodstained axe in his hands.

“What are you going to do?” Vampyr demanded, straining against the ropes with all his might.

“I am taking back what Sparta has given you as best as I can,” Acton said. He raised the axe over his head. It came down in a straight and accurate blow, slicing into Vampyr’s right arm midway between wrist and elbow, severing the end of the limb. Vampyr’s right hand flopped off the table, the fingers still twitching.

Vampyr gritted his teeth and glared at Acton, holding back the scream of pain by virtue of the very training Acton was trying to undo. Blood spurted from the stump, pulsing onto the table and ground. The Spartan commander walked around the surgeon’s table to the other side. Lifted the axe. And swung it down, severing the left hand at exactly the same point.

Vampyr screamed.

Two surgeons rushed forth, wearing leather gloves to hold red hot irons they had just pulled from a fire. They pressed the glowing metal against the forearm stumps. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, along with Vampyr’s screams. He didn’t even notice the Watcher Tyrn gingerly gathering his two severed hands and sprinkling them with black powder from a vial. Both appendages withered away at the touch of the mysterious powder.

The surgeons cauterized the wounds, then bound tight leather strips around the upper arms, further stemming the flow of blood to the severed limbs. All Vampyr knew was pain, radiating up both arms, into his core, then circling, mixing with his hatred into a black cauldron that would never know peace and solace.